


Tactical Expenses

by Primal_Nexus



Series: 'Twas Lunchies in the Replimat [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 'twas lunchies in the replimat, Angst, Episode: s03e02 The Search Part II, Julian Bashir and Elim Garak's Book Club, Julian is raggedy, M/M, POV Julian Bashir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27617560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Primal_Nexus/pseuds/Primal_Nexus
Summary: Julian Bashir meets Garak in the Replimat for what he expects will be one of their usual stimulating lunchtime literary debates. However, Julian’s recent experience as an unwitting test subject in a Dominion simulated reality experiment is forcing him to face some uncomfortable truths about care, loss, and honesty—truths made all the more jarring and difficult to face when he is confronted with Garak’s glib practicality.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: 'Twas Lunchies in the Replimat [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019175
Comments: 25
Kudos: 60





	Tactical Expenses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plain_and_simple_tailor (ectogeo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectogeo/gifts).



> I'm tentatively creating a chronologically ordered series of Replimat conversations between Garak and Julian, alternating POV between stories. The first in the series, "The Game," took place shortly before The Wire (s02e22). This one takes place shortly after The Search Pt II (s03e02). I expect the next installment (if I write one) will take place directly after The Die is Cast (s03e21).

“So! A Scandal in Bohemia…” Julian went right for it with his best engaging smile and inviting eyebrow waggle as he set down his tray and seated himself at the small table where he usually met Garak for their scheduled lunch discussions. Garak had just begun to raise a utensil in that familiar paralyzingly slow grace evidenced by most of his kind when eating, but he fluidly replaced it at the side of his steaming bowl. Julian noted that Garak very rarely gestured with anything but empty hands, and he tucked the observation away for later consideration in his modest but growing understanding of Cardassian table manners.

“My dear Doctor,” Garak saluted him with the sly smile and upturned palms that almost always signaled a pending rebuttal, “While I’ll admit that the study of your species’ outmoded illegal investigatory tactics is absolutely _fascinating_ to me, I can’t say that mystery in its most gratifying sense was ever once afoot in that particular adaptation.” Garak sniffed delicately, seeming to anticipate Julian’s exasperation, and he tipped his forehead in the tiniest acknowledging movement, continuing with only the barest hint of increased fondness and mirth brightening his eyes, “...which isn’t to say that you don’t cut quite the dashing figure as Mr. Holmes.”

“Why, thank you, Watson.” Of course, it was so like Garak to hedge his critique with bland flattery. It was unlike Julian to take the bait so readily, but what he had craved these past two days had been the ease of their companionship, the gratifying warmth of Garak’s affection, Cardassian social norms be damned. 

The desire to play out the story as a holo adaptation instead of reading it separately had taken Julian yesterday on a whim, and he had followed up on that whim with an immediate invitation (lest he second-guess himself or be forced to examine too closely his sudden inclination to spend his precious and scarce recreation time with Garak). To his surprise and pleasure, Garak had immediately accepted the invitation, and had, all things considered, been a rather good sport in the supporting role of Watson. “I suppose that mystery and intrigue enjoy more nuanced treatment in Cardassian literature?”

Garak hummed around a mouthful of the wretched stinking juice he enjoyed, tilted his head more demonstrably, swallowed, and treated Julian to an indulgent grin as he replaced his glass on the table.

“You suppose correctly. Arthur Conan Doyle fails to inspire my interest in such themes as much as Shoggoth in his Enigma Tales. Perhaps I can find a way to procure an adaptation for your enjoyment.”

“I’d like that.” Julian made an additional mental note to research and read as many Enigma Tales as he could before being exposed to what seemed Garak's favored examples of the form. But, well, this was awkward, and, well, something else. Something more sinister. Something wasn't right. Julian thought back to all of the mealtime engagements between them, and was alarmed to discover that they had come to some agreeable closure on this particular work almost twenty minutes earlier than was the norm (if such closure was a given to have been achieved at all as part of the dataset defined as ‘the norm’; typically this had not been the case). Julian’s food was still hot, and he had barely touched it. He tucked into it as an afterthought, and was relieved to find that Garak seemed pleased to enjoy some moments of easy silence in which to begin his own meal.

It was strange, to watch Garak’s careful hands, to glance up from time to time to catch glimpses of an expression relatively untroubled. Garak had always seemed a mystery unto himself, but now, with his own classified knowledge knocking around in his head (knowledge of the Dominion’s plans and tactics, and the memories, the terror, _I’m afraid I won’t be able to have lunch with you today…_ ), Julian caught himself in a flare of jealousy for the untroubled pleasure he read on Garak’s face. Part of that had to be a mask, certainly, but even with that in mind, Julian was growing more sulkily envious by the moment of Garak’s ability to ooze such mild ease while god-knew-what went on inside that ridge-adorned skull of his.

“—tor _Bashir_ …”

“I’m sorry!” Julian blurted, as was his now go-to reaction to having been caught out in a blankly staring, glazed reverie. He had to work on that! It was becoming a real problem.

“I was saying that despite my misgivings about the narrative structure of the work, I was very pleased to have been invited to participate in its adaptation with you. Do you know?— Before yesterday, I don’t think I’d ever had the pleasure of engaging a holosuite on this station.”

“Really?” It was a welcome distraction from Julian’s previous train of thought, almost as if Garak had purposefully served him a merciful lob. And Julian’s swing missed the mark entirely; he trailed off from his noise of interest and found he had nothing more to add.

“Quite so. I think the idea of steeping myself in fantasy to temporarily escape the torture of exile was distasteful to me… but, well, such is the extent of my hypoc—My _dear_ Doctor, please don’t let me bore you.”

Julian blinked his eyes hard; he had been frozen in another empty stare at his equally empty fork, which he had moved automatically and stupidly toward his face in mocking pantomime. He set it down now with a sigh of forfeit.

“ _You_? Bore _me_? Impossible,” Julian tried for the easy out, but the chuckle that followed was hollow and weak.

“That experiment is bothering you. I’m certain it was a _terrible_ experience.”

Julian wasn’t exactly surprised that Garak knew, but he drew his breath in sharply to warn of the coming appropriate chastisement. Garak held up a forestalling hand. “Just a bit of back-and-forth I accidentally overheard in the shop. The O’Briens were in for a commission. Molly is receiving the sweetest pajamas.”

It really was a travesty, what Garak could get away with, or at least what he _thought_ he could get away with, peppering in _just_ enough verifiable truth to the greater dish of the horrendous lie to make it palatable, if not believable. Julian knew that Molly had recently outgrown her favorite pajamas and was despairing of it loudly and frequently—nearly every night at bedtime—and Julian even knew that Miles and Keiko had had a spat about replacing the much beloved pajamas with a larger but otherwise identical outfit in pattern, cut, and color (Miles having been firmly in the camp of ‘Kids outgrow things. We can’t let her go on believing that everything is going to stay the same forever.’). It was a familial skirmish that Miles would no doubt have eventually lost, numbers being against him. Julian knew all these things, but he also knew that there wasn’t a chance that Miles and Keiko had discussed the classified experience of the Vorta-run Dominion experiment within earshot of anyone, much less a man Miles persisted in casually referring to as _that Cardie spy_.

“Garak, I really can’t talk about it.”

“And you need not. I can infer easily enough that the _experimental_ version of me—and there was one, wasn’t there?—did not survive. I must have made quite the dramatic and heroic exit to have had this effect on you. You are typically such a _busy_ man, Doctor.”

Julian had pressed an elbow down hard onto the table, and was cupping his face at such an angle to spare Garak the full heat of his glower. He would have to speak to Odo about improving the encryption of classified mission reports and—here Julian groaned internally— _personal_ logs! The gall Garak had to even suggest that he could possibly _infer_ any of that. Fine, then there would be no pretense.

“The Dominion already _knows_ so much about us—the crew, that is, and, well, the whole Alpha quadrant, really,” he relented in a low tone, still not meeting the questioning intensity of Garak’s gaze. “Right down to every nuance of personal engagement, keeping us all invested and tied up in the simulation, unsuspecting.” He shook his head. “I mean, I had a drink with Miles at Quark’s. That’s a _real_ experience that I had with him, real for _him_ too, since he was there, but it’s _not_ real because it was part of this simulated tactical evaluation. And…” Julian blinked slowly, then glumly gave in to the silently requested eye contact, nearly whispering in a tone he was sure would only just be audible for a Cardassian over the background din of the Replimat, “You _died,_ Garak. And it felt real. You apologized for not being able to make lunch with half your chest melted away and then you were gone.”

“Ah!” The exclamation was soft but sudden enough that it communicated surprise, a dawning understanding, perhaps a dash of amusement? Julian couldn’t be sure. “And what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Julian lurched back in his chair, incredulous and fighting a burst of nausea that had hit him out of nowhere. “I didn’t have time. You were already…” He squinted and puffed out his cheeks; he was a _doctor_ and he couldn’t even repeat what had happened.

“And yet, here I sit.” The self-satisfaction and wide-armed gesture of conciliation did nothing to lessen the tension or soothe the sick rumblings deep in Julian’s gut; he stifled a wet belch.

“I see that,” he managed curtly.

“I only mean, my _dear_ Doctor, that your experiential knowledge of my death was cheaply won. If I’m alive as ever, you have gained invaluable knowledge by experiencing a loss that isn’t real, have you not?”

“I…” The Replimat tilted and swam slightly. Julian forced a deep intake through flared nostrils in an attempt to tamp down the panic, diverted conscious effort to lowering his heart rate. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The watchers were watching you as if observing inconscient objects. But,” Garak gathered himself, seeming to draw up to the limits of rigid posture in his chair, “you are _strong_. You are dutiful. Don’t you see? The knowledge they sought came at a deathly price to them and none to you.”

“Garak…” Julian’s head hung low, slack, and so he was only dimly aware of Garak’s desperate insistence when he felt the cold, unyielding press of a Cardassian hand’s grip around his wrist.

“You’ve been given a great gift.” Garak’s voice was a whisper too, but it held a harsh edge. “Doctor, please listen. You watched me die, and yet I live. Consider what you may have learned from this experience _without_ the cost of my life. Does it not comfort and reassure you? You made the correct decision, to preserve your own life and further the interests of your Federation, the ideals of which are so much more dear to you than any personal attachment. You were faced with a test of the value of the greatest good, and by your own metrics, you passed with extreme merit. Personally, I would have you face my sudden death in no other way. Don't you see the advantage of your actions, and of the knowledge of yourself you have gained by them, especially that I am here, flesh embodied, to reassure you that you have done no wrong?”

Julian squeezed his eyes shut tighter, grimacing and shaking his head in denial. The humiliation of enduring this emotional and somatic swirl in public brought a hot rush of awareness to his skin, which tingled and flushed.

“I just…” Julian cleared his throat before Garak could continue, and fought the impulse to withdraw his hand from the grasp of his lunchmate. What exactly was happening here? How had it escalated so quickly? Why was he reacting against Starfleet training that prepared him at least in a roundabout way to mitigate the psychological impact of such an anomalous experience, and worse still against his _medical_ training, the death of one’s friends having been an expected du jour risk of frontier medicine? And of course Garak was right, he was right here, in the flesh. And instead of judging Julian for his failure, he was showering him with praise. It somehow made everything worse. “I regret that I couldn’t ease your way, that I didn’t have time. And they—the Founders—they knew, they _knew_ it would be a test for me. And _that_ frightens me.”

Garak withdrew his hand carefully, resettling himself with what seemed a casual glance around the space, to confirm that the momentary intensity of their interaction hadn’t been attended to with any particular interest by the other people dining.

“Don’t be afraid,” Garak responded lightly. “It was a test, and as with most tests you’ve faced to my knowledge, you did very well. I don’t resent you for any perceived failure to wail over my corpse… especially seeing as I am, as I must point out _again_ , very much alive. Do consider what you’ve learned at no great cost. This is how you seek an advantage after having been surprised by the foe.”

Julian swallowed and attempted to process the chasm between them, the dimensions of their disconnect. Garak had said all the right things, and then _some_ , and as always, it was the additional _some_ that got to him. Julian supposed he had come to this scheduled lunch discussion and perhaps even to the holosuite the previous day with a desire to be reassured and forgiven, but Garak had overstepped and simultaneously underplayed—offering him all of the reassurance he craved and more, and yet bracketing off the forgiveness as if it wasn’t necessary. But Julian wanted it so desperately, and shouldn’t Garak have been able to give it freely enough? When Julian finally raised his gaze to meet Garak’s again, searching, asking, all he found was a radiating sense of, _I’m trying to teach you something_ , and he dared not press his case further, even from a different angle.

“I’ll try to see it your way, Garak. Your stew’s getting cold.”

**Author's Note:**

> I neglect the core responsibilities of feeding myself at regular intervals and checking my work e-mail to come a-begging for your comments and kudos <3


End file.
